The Murder Book

But it wasn't, not a line of print.

That made no sense. Reporters were tuned in to the police band, covered the morgue, too.

He sped to the station, checked his own box and Schwi

"Oh, yeah. You're the one called about parties." The guy had a crisp, clipped voice, and Milo knew he was talking to an ex-military man. Middle-aged voice. Korea, not V.N.

"That's right. Thanks for calling back. What've you got?"

"Two on Friday, both times kids being jerks. The first was a sweet sixteen on Stradella, all-girls' sleepover that some punks tried to crash. Not local boys. Black kids and Mexicans. The girls' parents called us, and we ejected them."

"Where were the crashers from?"

"They claimed Beverly Hills." Del Monte laughed. "Right."

"They give you any trouble?"

"Not up front. They made like they were leaving Bel Air- we followed them to Sunset, then hung back and watched. Idiots crossed over near UCLA, then tried to come back a few minutes later and head over to the other party." Del Monte chuckled, again. "No luck, Pachuco. Our people were already there on a neighbor complaint. We ejected them before they even got out of the car."

"Where was the second party?"

"That was the live one, big-time noise. Upper Stone Canyon Drive way above the hotel."

The locale Schwi

"Empty house," said Del Monte. "The family bought a bigger one but didn't get around to selling the first one and the parents took a vacation, left the kiddies behind and, big surprise, the kiddies decided to use the empty house for fun 'n' games, invited the entire damn city. Must've been two, three hundred kids all over the place, cars- Porsches and other good wheels, and plenty of outside wheels. By the time we showed up, it was a scene. It's a big property, coupla acres, no real close-by neighbors, but by now the closest neighbors were fed up."

"By now?" said Milo. "This wasn't the first time?"

Silence. "We've had a few other calls there. Tried to contact the parents, no luck, they're always out of town."

"Spoiled brats."

Del Monte laughed. "You didn't hear that from me. Anyway, what's up with all this?"

"Tracing a 187 victim's whereabouts."

Silence. "Homicide? Nah, no way. This was just kids partying and playing music too loud."

"I'm sure you're right," said Milo. "But I've got rumors that my db might've attended a party on the Westside, so I've gotta ask. What's the name of the family that owns the house?"

Longer silence. "Listen," said Del Monte. "These people- you do me wrong, I could be parking cars. And believe me, no one saw anything worse than drinking and screwing around- a few joints, big deal, right? Anyway, we closed it down."

"I'm just going through the routine, Officer," said Milo. "Your name won't come up. But if I don't check it out, I'll be parking cars. Who owns the house and what's the address?"

"A rumor?" said Del Monte. "There had to be tons of parties Friday night."

"Any party we hear about, we look into. That's why yours won't stick out."

"Okay… the family's named Cossack." Del Monte uttered it weightily, as if that was supposed to mean something.

"Cossack," said Milo, keeping his tone ambiguous.

"As in office buildings, shopping malls- Garvey Cossack. Big downtown developer, part of that bunch wanted to bring another football team to L.A."

"Yeah, sure," lied Milo. His interest in sports had peaked with Pop Warner baseball. "Cossack on Stone Canyon. What's the address?"

Del Monte sighed and read off the numbers.

"How many kids in the family?" said Milo.

"Three- two boys and a girl. Didn't see the daughter, there, but she could've been."

"You know the kids personally?"

"Nah, just by sight."

"So the boys threw the party," said Milo. "Names?"

"The big one's Garvey Junior and the younger one's Bob but they call him Bobo."

"How old?"

"Junior's probably twenty-one, twenty-two, Bobo's maybe a year younger."

More than kids, thought Milo.

"They gave us no trouble," said Del Monte. "They're just a couple guys like to have fun."

"And the girl?"

"Her I didn't see."

Milo thought he picked up something new in Del Monte's voice. "Name?"

"Caroline."

"Age?"

"Younger- maybe seventeen. It was really no big deal, everyone dispersed. My message said you're Central. Where was your db found?"

Milo told him.

"There you go," said Del Monte. "Fifteen miles from Bel Air. You're wasting your time."

"Probably. Three hundred partying kids just caved when you showed up?"

"We've got experience with that kind of thing."

"What's the technique?" said Milo.

"Use sensitivity," said the rent-a-cop. "Don't treat 'em like you would a punk from Watts or East L.A. 'cause these kids are accustomed to a certain style."

"Which is?"

"Being treated like they're important. If that doesn't work, threaten to call the parents."

"And if that doesn't work?"

"That usually works. Gotta go, nice talking to you."

"I appreciate the time, Officer. Listen, if I came by and showed a photo around, would there be a chance anyone would recognize a face?"

"Whose face?"

"The vic's."

"No way. Like I said, it was a swarm. After a while they all start to look alike."

"Rich kids?"

"Any kids."

It was nearly 10 A.M., and Schwi

Del Monte had been decent enough to call and look where it got him.

No good deed goes unpunished.

It took nearly forty minutes to reach Bel Air. The patrol office was a white, tile-roofed bungalow tucked behind the west gate. Lots of architectural detail inside and out- Milo would've been happy to make it his house. He'd heard that the gates and the private-cop scrutiny had been instituted by Howard Hughes when he lived in Bel Air because the billionaire didn't trust LAPD.

The rich taking care of their own. Just like the party on Stone Canyon: ticked-off neighbors, but everything kept private, no nuisance call had reached the West L.A. station.

Del Monte was at the front desk, and when Milo came in, his dark, round face turned sour. Milo apologized and whipped out a crime-scene snap he'd taken from the pile Schwi

He left the patrol office and drove to the party house on Stone Canyon Drive. Huge, redbrick, three-story, six-column Colonial. Black double doors, black shutters, mullioned windows, multiple gables. Milo's guess was twenty, twenty-five rooms.

The Cossack family had moved to something more generous.

A huge dry lawn and flaking paint on some of the shutters said the maintenance schedule had slackened since the house had emptied. Shredded hedges and scraps of paper confettiing the brick walkway were the only evidence of revelry gone too far. Milo parked, got out, picked up one of the shreds, hoping for some writing, but it was soft and absorbent and blank- heavy-duty paper towel. The gate to the backyard was bolted and opaque. He peered over, saw a big blue egg of a pool, rolling greenery, lots of brick patio, blue jays pecking. Behind one of the hedges, the glint of glass- cans and bottles.